


Amidst the Chaos

by WriterGirl128



Series: No Big Deal [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott, Anchors, Bromance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Nogitsune, mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:22:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2172576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterGirl128/pseuds/WriterGirl128
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it had something to do with the whole human-lie-detector thing, or maybe it was just a best friend thing, but Scott could always tell when Stiles was having a rough day, despite Stiles' best efforts at brushing it off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amidst the Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> So...this happened? It's in Scott's POV because the first part was in Stiles' and so why the hell not, right?

The best part about having Stiles as his anchor was how easy it made everything, how natural it felt. They were already best friends, brothers, even before the whole werewolf thing started. It wasn’t hard to just hang out and spend time with each other. It wasn’t hard to talk about things—personal things that they didn’t really feel comfortable with talking about to other people. It wasn’t even hard to adapt to the newly upgraded 'intimacy' of their relationship, as Stiles would put it.

That was Scott’s favorite thing about Stiles. He didn’t make a big deal about it. If he had, Scott wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to face him again. Because, yeah—he was kind of embarrassed about the whole thing. The fact that he just craved Stiles’ touch, and his scent, and everything about him, made a fierce heat rise to his cheeks and made him want to hide his face in shame. It was so—clingy. Needy. Not at all what an Alpha should be like. It was just an all-around awkward thing to deal with. And he didn't want to make it weird between them - he wasn't sure he could handle losing his best friend because of some stupid urge to snuggle. No - no way. Not gonna happen.

But Stiles rolled with it easily - he was surprisingly understanding about it all. At times, it seemed like he knew more about the whole thing than Scott himself did. He'd realize Scott was getting jittery or antsy even before Scott would, and he'd nudge him with his elbow or throw an arm around his shoulder casually. He'd instigate half tickling, half wrestling matches, and werewolf or not, he knew just where to poke to have Scott crying on the floor from laughing.

And there was a lot more laughing, these days.

Scott felt less edgy, having an anchor in Stiles. For a while, his control had become a little spotty - like after the whole self-sacrifice-mind-trip thing. Now, though, it was almost brick-wall steady. He rarely got that skin splitting feeling anymore, like something was trying to claw itself out from under his bones, nor did he find himself needing to try as hard to control it. Stiles just made everything easier.

It was definitely a mutual thing, though, Scott quickly realized. Because as great as Stiles was for Scott, Scott was equally as great for Stiles. Because, yeah - Stiles had his bad days. No one expected him to just move on after everything that had happened to him. He'd been through hell and back, and they all knew that he wasn't coming back without a few open wounds. It wasn't something he could just brush off, something he could just move on from - his body had been violated, and abused, and used as a weapon against the people he loved in a completely invasive manner. He had essentially been turned into a puppet, and his puppeteer had mentally and emotionally abused him over and over again.

Not that Stiles let anyone but Scott see that. Maybe it had something to do with the whole human-lie-detector thing, or maybe it was just a best friend thing, but Scott could always tell when Stiles was having a rough day, despite Stiles' best efforts at brushing it off.

He never pushed Stiles to talk about it, in the same kind of way that Stiles never pushed Scott to talk about Allison. They were delicate topics—topics that still made their bones ache and their eyes sting. Neither one of them liked seeing the other in pain like that—because that’s what it was. Raw, angry, bleeding pain. And seeing the other so hurt was as painful to them as feeling it firsthand. So they never pushed.

But still, whenever Scott noticed Stiles was having one of his worse days, he’d make a point of bubbling up their interactions. He’d pretend not to notice the shadows that hang under his best friend’s eyes, or the fact that sometimes he just pushes the food on his plate around, and that not much makes it into his mouth. Instead, he’d try to distract him, get him talking or thinking about something else. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Most of the time, simply being together makes a difference.

There was one night that was really bad for Stiles. It wasn’t too long after finding out he was Scott’s new anchor—in fact, it was one of the first nights since that they hadn’t slept over one or the others’ house. It embarrassed Scott to admit how much he enjoyed their sleepovers, how calm, and warm, and right it felt when his shoulders brushed against Stiles’, or when their hands met, or when Stiles just casually would wrap his arm around Scott’s waist, saving Scott the humiliation of doing it himself.

But he had other responsibilities as well—like having dinner with his father, or spending the night watching movies with his mother. He was the Alpha—he had a pack to take care of. As much as he loved spending time with Stiles, being surrounded by his scent, he couldn’t just drop the other people in his life. That wasn’t right.

Scott was asleep when he got the text. He had blinked blearily at his phone, unlocking the screen. It was 2:37 in the morning.

The text was from Stiles. It was a short, simple, _Hey, are you awake?_

Scott sat up, forcing himself to blink the sleep out of his eyes. _Yeah. What’s up?_

He didn’t have to wait very long for a response. _Not much, just…couldn’t sleep._

Scott was awake now, something in his gut knowing there was more to it. He moved to put his shoes on, sliding them in as he stood up. _Everything okay?_ he texted back, though he thought he already knew the answer.

There was no response for a minute, and Scott pulled his bedroom door closed as quietly as he could. Naturally, it squeaked shrilly and rang out throughout his entire house. He made it to the front door before he heard his mother’s voice call out to him. “Scott?” she asked tiredly, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “What’s—what’s going on?”

Scott winced—some creature of the night, he was. Can’t even sneak out of his own house without getting caught. He lifted his phone, wincing a little. “Everything’s okay,” he assured her, keeping his voice low so not to wake his dad. “But Stiles, uh—I think I should go over there.”

Melissa’s eyes were suddenly very alert, very worried, and very alarmed. “What happened?” she asked again, all traces of sleepiness in her voice gone.

“He’s okay,” he said quickly. “He is, he just, uh—couldn’t sleep. Everything’s okay. Really.” It wasn’t a lie so much as an empty statement—he wasn’t exactly sure if it was true or not. He decided to just roll with it.

Melissa looked at Scott for a moment, gauging his judgment, before nodding. “Okay. Be careful—let me know if anything happens, alright?”

Scott nodded, pulling the door open. “Love you,” he said, still keeping his voice low. He planted a kiss on her cheek before turning out the door. “I’ll let you know if I’ll be back tonight or not.”

Melissa nodded a little sadly. “I love you too, sweetheart.” He was just about to pull the door closed behind him when she spoke up again. “Hey, Scott?” she asked almost tentatively. He pushed the door open again, peeking in. “Just—just make sure he’s alright, won’t you? Make sure he’s okay.”

Scott smiled a little, but it was a sad kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Yeah, I will. Don’t worry.”

By the time Scott had gotten into the car, Stiles had finally replied. Instead of an answer, though, all he said was: _Can you come over?_

_Already on my way._

* * *

 

Scott broke about twenty traffic laws getting to Stiles’ house. Something in his gut was tugging him there—the same part of his that just knew when someone in his pack was hurt. Stiles was pack—and he was definitely hurting. It made something tighten in Scott’s chest, something that wasn’t entirely human—an anger towards whatever had dared to hurt a member of his pack. But he already knew what it was, so the anger was useless—there was nothing he could do about it now. It just sat there, brewing.

The door was open when Scott went up to it. He’d figured as much—Stiles wouldn’t want to wake his dad by having Scott knock. So he let himself in, closing it gently behind him. He was about to venture up the stairs, to Stiles’ room, when he saw that the living room lights were on, down the hallway. He started down it, and he could smell the grief and the guilt and the sorrow in the air, wound together with anxiety so tight, so intense, he was surprised Stiles wasn’t having a panic attack. “Hey,” he said softly, entering the room. Stiles was sitting on the couch, head in his hands, but looked up sharply when he heard Scott’s voice. There was a flare of panic in the air, at first, before a kind of warm comfort untightened a little of the anxiety. His eyes were ringed in red, and Scott frowned, taking the seat next to him. “Have you been crying?” he asked gently, sitting so their shoulders were pressed together.

Stiles seemed to soak up the touch, leaning into it a bit himself. Scott could smell a little more of the anxiety in Stiles dissipate. After a minute, he nodded, exhaling deeply. “Yeah.”

Scott nodded, his expression as open and nonjudgmental as he could make it. He could already tell that Stiles was starting to relax a bit, the anxiety in the air not nearly as suffocating as it had been mere seconds ago. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked slowly. "Because if you do, I'm, you know. Here. I'm all ears."

Stiles was fidgeting, which was always a telltale sign that he was thinking. His leg bounced idly, and he tapped his thumbs together, but the anxious movements actually made Scott feel a bit better. The nogitsune never fidgeted like Stiles—no, he was almost hauntingly still, all subtle, purposeful movements. Seeing Stiles fidget became like a security blanket to Scott. “I just—I don’t know, man,” he settled on, before sighing and dropping his head, almost as if in defeat. “I don’t know.”

Something sad tightened in Scott’s chest. He hated seeing Stiles so…he didn’t know the word to describe it. Sad wasn’t strong enough, but broken seemed too strong. Because Stiles wasn’t broken—really, he wasn’t. He was just…cracked, a little bit. “Hey,” Scott soothed, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to. I understand.”

Stiles’ eyes closed, now. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he started slowly, “it’s just that—I don’t know what I’m supposed to be saying. It’s like—I don’t freaking know, Scott.” Then, it all came pouring out, like a river of words Stiles had gotten tired of filtering back. “It’s like I don’t know what to say, and I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about all of this, and it’s so damn _frustrating,_ Scott. Sometimes I-I can’t stop thinking about it, and I want to, my god, if it were up to me I’d just erase the entire thing from my mind—but I can’t, and I think about it, and I feel guilty even though I know it wasn’t my fault, entirely, and I just…I don’t know what to do about it, Scott. And I have to do something about it, because unless I get my head on straight pretty damn soon, I might as well check right back in to Eichen House.”

Scott’s heart lurched as he listened. He put his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, saying nothing—it was obvious by the way he spoke that Stiles had been holding this back for a while. So Scott listened. He hated the way Stiles’ scent was mixed with anger, and guilt, and sorrow in a way no teenager should ever have to experience—a way no one should have to experience, period. He could practically feel Stiles buzzing with anxiety and unspoken words. So, instead of interrupting him, he simply kept his arm around him, something solid amidst the chaos.

Stiles seemed grateful for that. He kind of deflated against Scott in a little, shaky exhale. “I can’t sleep in my room,” he said abruptly, shaking his head. “I try to, I do, I just—I still feel like it isn’t over. I feel like I’m gonna fall asleep in my bed and start sleepwalking again, or having nightmares. Part of me feels like it’s all just another trick.”

That almost animalistic anger that had been brewing in Scott’s chest flared up. He couldn’t stand seeing Stiles this way. He found his arm tightening protectively around Stiles, around his anchor. There was a certain look in his eyes, a look that screamed how Stiles was the one of the most important things in his world, and that he would do anything to protect him—including rip apart anything that dared to hurt him ever again.

It was the kind of look that both comforted Stiles and made him nervous in a new sort of way. “Hey, Scotty?” he asked quietly, squirming against the suddenly painfully tight arm around his shoulders. “Squishy, fragile, breakable human, here.”

Scott blinked at him for a second before letting his grip loosen, eyes widening. “God, I’m—I’m sorry.” A surge of guilt fluttered up from deep in his core, and he shook his head. “I just—I hate what that thing did to you, Stiles. I hate it.”

Stiles snorted in agreement. “Join the club,” he said wearily, before wiping at his eyes again.

Scott watched him carefully. He could tell Stiles was already feeling better, after venting things out, but there was still an exhaustion that clung to his scent in a way that made Scott’s bones ache. “What can I do?” he asked after a stretch of silence. He tried to ignore the way his own voice wobbled, and the hints of desperation in his words. “How can I help?”

Now Stiles nudged him with his elbow, still leaning into his shoulder. “This helps,” he said honestly. “Just—being here. Humoring me while I vent like the crazy person it appears I am.”

“Stiles, don’t say that. You’re not crazy.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow at that. “Are you forgetting the part where I checked myself into a mental institution?”

“Are you forgetting the part where there was a psychotic fox trying to break in to your head? It was a last resort.” Stiles didn’t say anything, just sighed, dropping his gaze to his fingers again. Scott squeezed his shoulders, though gently this time. “Stiles, it wasn’t your fault. You know it wasn’t your fault. And you’re not crazy. You may not be entirely sane all the time, but you’re not crazy.”

Stiles was silent for a second, before bringing his gaze back up. “Thanks for this,” he said, steering the conversation in a new direction. He shook his head. “I don’t know what it is, Scott, you just—you help. You don’t even have to say anything, and you help.”

Something swelled in Scott’s chest at the words. He knew that feeling, when just being around someone makes you feel better. He felt that with Stiles almost all the time. That’s why he was Scott’s anchor—he just made everything better, without consciously trying to.

It was like Stiles noticed the warm feeling that washed over Scott, knew what Scott was thinking, because a smile started to tug at the corners of his mouth. “I guess you’re kind of my anchor, too,” he continued, his body seeming a little lighter—like the leaden anxiety that had been pulling him down was slowly getting lighter. Or he was getting stronger, learning to carry it better. “In a way. Even the whole disregard of personal bubbles thing. Which,” he added quickly, noting how Scott’s ears had gone red, “I know you’re stupidly embarrassed about, even though I’ve told you about a hundred and twenty million times that it’s no big deal...even that helps.” Then he raised his eyebrows at Scott. “So if anyone should be embarrassed about it, it should be me. At least you’ve got the whole werewolf anchor-to-humanity excuse going for you. I’m just—I don’t know, needy?”

Scott could feel a little of the heat leave his face, could feel the corners of his mouth twitching into an almost smile. “Well, at least I’m not the only pathetically clingy one, then,” he remarked, which earned him a laugh from Stiles, and to Scott, it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Right,” Stiles chuckled. “We’ll be pathetic together.”

The smile that had been pulling at Scott’s lips grew a bit. “I guess not much has really changed, has it?”

Stiles slung his arm around Scott’s shoulders, and both of them kind of leaned into each other. “Nope,” he agreed. “Once pathetic losers, always pathetic losers.”

The thought was oddly comforting.

Later that night, after they’d practically talked each other’s’ ears off, Stiles finally fell asleep. It happened slowly. He seemed to get progressively more tired as the night went on, and while Scott was finally at ease with how the anxiety and guilt and sorrow had mostly filtered out of Stiles’ scent, some part of him was still furious about the reason it was there in the first place. Because Stiles didn’t deserve that. And the part of Scott that was, admittedly, probably a little too over protective of his friends and his family and his pack, couldn’t seem to let go of that anger.

Stiles, nearly asleep now, and practically curled up next to Scott on the couch, seemed to notice. He shifted a bit, nestling down closer to Scott. “Hey,” he mumbled tiredly, closing his eyes, “stop that.” Scott raised an eyebrow at him. “Stop what?” “That look on your face. The angry one. Stop it. I’m fine—so stop looking like you’re about to hunt down everything that’s ever hurt me. I’m okay. I’m a trooper,” he added, but his voice was getting quieter, exhaustion making his body relax a little more with every exhale. “Jus’ try’na get my head on straight,” he mumbled. “ ‘s hard. But I’ve got you to help me, yeah?”

Scott tightened his arm a bit, squeezing Stiles’ shoulders. “Always.”

For a long stretch of silence, Scott was sure Stiles had fallen asleep. Then—“Thanks, Scotty,” his voice murmured suddenly, and it amazed Scott that he was still conscious, with how tired he sounded. “For coming. Sorry I…woke you up.”

And Scott couldn’t help but smile fondly, as Stiles finally, clearly, fell asleep. He looked so young, so innocent, so vulnerable that Scott’s chest tightened. To think that this was how it got into his head, through his dreams… Nothing was going to hurt Stiles like that again. Ever.

Scott’s thumb rubbed little circles on Stiles’ shoulder as he slept. “It’s okay, Stiles,” he finally replied to the silent room, and shook his head a little. “It’s no big deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, honestly. This series was originally just going to be a one shot, but people actually liked it (?!?!?!?) and someone suggested I write another part to it, so I sat down and...this happened. Let me know what you think!


End file.
